Chapter Text
For Nakahara Chuuya, there was no better day than when his blood boiled, followed by a simmering fury that his body had felt ever since he became Arahabaki's vessel; which, by default, happened daily since he joined the Port Mafia. Or since five guys decided to call themselves his friends.
If one was to ask the redhead if he hated being there, he'd hiss; a gesture that, for most, meant yes. Ah, a shame none of the Flags called themselves "most," since each had their own aliases. Nevertheless, they knew better than anyone what Nakahara was really like, especially what he liked. Impossible to forget, thanks to a secret document Ice Man had written, containing all sorts of details about Chuuya, even (especially) the most obscure ones.
One of them, precisely: he hated being called Nakahara. You see, it's not hard to guess why the man had become so irascible since joining this little "club," and why that wasn't going to change anytime soon. Much to his chagrin, Chuuya also hated admit—know—that he couldn't escape the warmth the Flags offered him, without trying too hard. Perhaps it wasn't crazy to say he was grateful for everything they'd done.
Well, certainly not when they decided he needed to create a Lettery account, or whatever the fuck it was called.
"I don't need to rate movies," Chuuya snapped, his hatred abundantly clear.
"You don't need to rate anything," replied Piano Man, who was already creating the account for him. The nicest name he'd come up with: nakanakachuu.
"I don't even watch that many movies," Chuuya said, crossing his arms. "I'm pretty sure I've never even watched one properly."
"Now you will."
"I have better things to do."
"You're fifteen, kid," Piano Man desperately searched his gallery for a picture of the redhead, probably one taken while he was distracted. "What better things do you have to do?"
"Kill you." No hesitation.
Albatross, sprawled across the other end of the couch, laughed. “Yo, put that on his profile. Chuuya’s interests: murder, wine, being angry.”
Chuuya groaned. “I hate you all.”
“We know.”
And that’s how it all began.
The Flags had always watched movies together, who knows for how long, but Chuuya had never really participated. He’d sit and watch while they argued about what movie to put on, complain when one was too loud, steal whatever food was closest… and, every now and then, fall asleep somewhere no one could remember where they’d left him.
It was inevitable that, sooner or later, someone would decide that this, technically, counted as participation. Piano Man being the worst, his first instinct was to create a Letterboxd account for their dear Chuuya. Just like that, without warning. After all, movies were his passion (after Lippmann, of course). Piano Man had lists: movies they had to see, movies they'd already seen, movies they'd argued about, movies they'd suggested and rejected. Somehow, he'd turned movie-watching into another one of his stupid rituals, which meant Chuuya had no escape once he was involved.
Nakahara retrieved his phone, his eyes glued to his new account. The name was ridiculous. The profile picture was ridiculous. His friends were ridiculous. Yet when Piano Man grinned, reaching for a DVD lying on the floor, Chuuya couldn't argue.
Seconds later, all the Flags were gathered around the couch.
"This one's five stars," Piano Man said, holding up the DVD.
Chuuya eyed the cover suspiciously, throwing judgment upon it. Everything about it sucked. Someone with such exquisite taste as his shouldn't have to see that. "The Conversation?"
"Yes."
"Sounds… boring."
"You haven't seen it," Piano Man scoffed.
"I know that."
"That's not how movies work, kid."
Albatross leaned back on the sofa, eyes wide with curiosity despite them being hidden behind sunglasses. "What's it about?"
"Surveillance." Piano Man held up a finger. "—Cool." Albatross nodded. "Paranoia." He held up another. "—Cool." Albatross nodded. "And guilt." He held up yet another. "…Less cool." Albatross finished.
Chuuya laughed dryly, while Piano Man just sighed. "You guys have no culture."
"Fine, we'll watch it," Albatross decided.
"Why?" Chuuya looked at him, raising an eyebrow.
“Because”—he gestured with his fingers like they were guns—“it looked like you were going to say no!”
“I was.”
Albatross smirked, then threw his head back. “Exactly.”
Accepting defeat, Chuuya sat down next to the blond. Piano Man did the same after inserting the DVD. Doc leaned against the arm of the sofa, holding an IV tube; Lippmann stood near him, eagerly awaiting the movie; Ice Man stood with a cigarette between his lips.
Piano Man talked for half the movie despite insisting earlier that he wouldn't. Albatross kept asking questions just to annoy him. Ice Man, Lippmann, and Doc went to hang out somewhere else. Chuuya complained about the pacing, and then, about an hour later, he stopped complaining. Because he was actually paying attention. His face reflected expressions he didn't even know he was capable of; at some point, Piano Man noticed, but chose to not dwell on it.
When the credits rolled, the three of them were silent for a few seconds before Albatross threw his arms above his head and declared, "It was pretty good."
Piano Man seemed overly pleased with himself. Meanwhile, Chuuya grabbed the remote to watch some action series. "It was good."
"Good?" Piano Man asked incredulously.
"Yeah," Chuuya replied monotonously.
“You give it four stars." "—Three." "Four." "—Three." "Four." “Fucking three—”
Albatross interrupted:
“Four!”
Chuuya glared at them, gritting his teeth, almost as if smoke were rising from his head. “Fine. Four.”
Piano Man smiled slightly and opened Chuuya’s Letterboxd account directly from his phone. “I give it a five.”
“You can’t rate it for me.”
“Of course I can, and I will.”
“You’re a damn pain in the ass.”
“Thanks.” Piano Man smiled even wider.
Albatross whistled at their bickering and picked up a bottle of vodka from the floor. Unfortunately, it was almost empty; even so, he tried to share: “Drink up, Chuu. You’ll forget about all of this tomorrow.”
The smell of alcohol permeated the room.
Chuuya Nakahara, in fact, never forgot that moment. Not the argument, nor the way Piano Man fiddled with the phone while Albatross laughed and drank the bottle (which ended up in Chuuya's mouth as well). Albatross’s voice was distant, only echoes remained; fragments of what had happened. Their faces... God, Chuuya Nakahara could never forget their dumb faces.
He was doomed from the start, surely it was all the work of some malevolent entity! Or, maybe even himself. It was all his fault. God, the alcohol burned down his throat. All those insignificant little things that no one bothers to remember because there's always another night, finally made sense.
Over time, the room where they had watched those movies came to belong to memories, not people.
The redhead kept his Letterboxd account; deleting it would be worse. The followers, the lists, the ratings, the discussions in the comments, it was all still there. Inside him, there was that unwavering desire to remain nakanakachuu, instead of Arahabaki.
That movie, "The Conversation," was still there. Why couldn't they be there too? Why couldn't Chuuya Nakahara feel that he, himself, was there in that very moment? Sorrow. Tainted. It all fell upon him, piercing his heart, once so untouched.
He stared at the logged movie for a long time. He had never given it five stars; Piano Mand had. The DVD was still there, so the redhead picked it up as the television screen lit up.
Nakahara watched it alone. Contrary to the film's title, there was no one to talk to; only his own emptiness, even though Arahabaki was forcing him full. There was no one beside him to explain the cinematography, no one to complain about the pacing, no one to make stupid comments. Nakahara was alone, as he was always destined to be.
As soon as the credits rolled, Chuuya looked down at his phone, almost crushed by his trembling fingers. His thumb stopped on the rating.
Five stars.
Then, after a moment, he opened the review Piano Man had written years ago. Nothing too surprising, just obnoxiously long.
Chuuya chuckled. “Still fucking pretentious,” he muttered, proceeding to read it anyway. He hadn’t even liked the movie that much, but Piano Man had. Somehow, that was enough. Still, the empty space beside him remained. “You’d probably make me watch it again.”
The room fell silent. A strange, uncomfortable silence. Nakahara longed to feel the raucous energy of his chaotic friend group again, just one last time. God, he’d give anything for it—to go in their place, too.
“I still hate you all.” A smile spread across his face.
And so did the television, switching back on, ready to restart the movie.